Well Met(13)

Simon’s brow furrowed. “Not that I’m aware of. I just . . .”

“You just like Shakespeare. It’s okay, you can admit it.” My heart beat a little faster as I ribbed him. Was he the kind of guy who could take a little joking around? Jake had always gotten surly and defensive, but maybe Simon was different.

“You should talk.” He nodded at the copy of Twelfth Night in my hand. “You knew off the top of your head what Shakespeare was doing in 1601; you rattled it off like it was nothing at rehearsal.” There went that eyebrow again, but this time it wasn’t as annoying. Weird. “Seems I’m not the only one with a mild Shakespeare obsession.”

He remembered that? “Guilty. He’s always been my favorite.” But now that he mentioned it . . . “Are you sure we can’t have someone playing Shakespeare at this thing? Wandering around, maybe reciting sonnets at people?”

“That . . . no.” The furrow in his brow deepened, and he frowned. This was not a man who was open to new ideas. Yet his eyes remained bright, negating the severity of his expression, so maybe he was still open to me. That idea thrilled me more than it should have.

“No, you’re right. I have a better idea.” I clapped my hands together as the brainstorm took hold. Oh, it was terrible, and I almost laughed. “What if you have multiple Shakespeares?”

“What . . .” He shook his head. “Why would you . . . That makes even less sense.”

“Now hear me out. You have four or five guys in costume, each one saying he’s Shakespeare, right? And the patrons have to figure out which one is the real Shakespeare, and which ones are only poseurs like Francis Bacon or Christopher Marlowe.”

“Marlowe . . .” His confused expression cleared up in a snap. “Are you talking about the authorship question?” A look of horror spread across his face, and the laugh that threatened now bubbled out of me.

“Well, sure.” The more I grinned, the more dismayed he looked. “It’s educational, right? You could teach people about multiple historical figures in one story line.”

“Except it’s a load of crap.” He crossed his arms over his chest, but there was a spark in his eyes, and his lips pressed together in a thin line to hide a smile. He was enjoying this as much as I was. I liked this side of the Ren Faire Killjoy. “Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. Please tell me you don’t think someone else did.”

I didn’t, of course. I thought the so-called authorship question was a bunch of garbage. One of the world’s oldest conspiracy theories, and a mystery that might never be completely solved. How do you prove definitively who wrote something over four centuries ago?

But Simon seemed so horrified that I might actually believe it, like I might pluck a tinfoil hat out of my purse, that I couldn’t let on. It was fun, and I hadn’t had a lot of fun lately. Not to mention that if you squinted, this conversation could be considered flirting, and I hadn’t had a lot of that lately, either. So of course I had to keep needling him. “You can’t deny there’s some pretty compelling evidence. I mean, if you look at the life of Edward de Vere alone, you have to admit the Earl of Oxford had the requisite background to—”

“No.” He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, this is worse than I thought.” He peeked at me through his fingers. “Are you seriously an Oxfordian?”

“No.” I couldn’t hide my laugh anymore, so I let him off the hook. “Not really. But I had a very open-minded Shakespeare professor. Class discussions were interesting.” I hadn’t thought about those classes in years. Or Shakespeare. Or poor Edward de Vere. I didn’t realize until just now how much I missed the intellectual side of myself. It was nice to see her again.

Simon cracked a smile, and although he immediately swallowed it, there was still interest in his eyes. I felt like I’d scored a point. “So you have an English degree?”

“Oh.” My smile slipped. “Well, no. I have most of one.”

“Most of one,” he repeated. He gave a little shake of his head like that didn’t make sense.

“Yeah.” All the levity of the past few minutes drained out of me like a punctured balloon. “I ended up leaving my junior year.” It wasn’t something I was proud of, but it wasn’t a shameful secret, either. However, admitting it out loud to this man made me feel about two inches tall.

“Really.” His expression fell, and while he did his best to not let it show, his disappointment was clear.

“Yeah.” I studied my feet, flexed my toes in my sandals. I needed a pedicure; the pink polish was looking pretty chipped. It was easier to think about the state of my toes than about my life and its aborted plans. Why should I care what Simon thought of me? I didn’t even like this guy, remember?

“What happened? Why did you—?” He stopped speaking abruptly as I looked up at him. I couldn’t imagine what emotions were playing across my face, but they must have been bleak enough to stun him into silence. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s really—”

“No, it’s okay . . .”

“None of my business. It’s none of my business.” A painful silence stretched between us that I didn’t know how to break. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at the counter, at the floor, over his shoulder to where Chris had disappeared. How long did it take her to find a book back there? Neither of us spoke, and I desperately wanted to rewind the last few minutes, and go back to the two of us laughing about crazy Shakespeare theories. What was worse in his estimation: that I didn’t have a college degree, or the act of dropping out before finishing it?